I wrote a poem from your text

That I searched for, sulking and accusing, until you softly pointed out it was here by the door and I blushed at my impatience.

The minute that we postered the neighbourhood for

“Please call with any information.”

The minute that fell behind the stove

to be found only on moving day when – with the appliance pulled from the wall, sweat on our brows, and time before the movers arrived running out – we will notice that we have become used to living without it and strain to remember where it came from, exactly.

The lost minute that we heard about on the news

And we said “oh, how sad”

and “can you imagine?”

The one that, having been untouched all these years, remains intact

A remarkable specimen

The one covered in dust

The one faded from sunlight

The minute I put in a place for safe keeping and told myself I wouldn’t forget